


Fur and Flippers and Duck Bills Oh My!

by Questions3



Series: Adventures of Bilbo the Hedgehog [4]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Childhood, Cute, F/M, Female Bilbo, Shifter AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 06:16:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Questions3/pseuds/Questions3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baby Frodo gets adopted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fur and Flippers and Duck Bills Oh My!

**Author's Note:**

> Three shorts makes a series.

            By this point she should have realized her little hobbit life was never going to just settle down and be anything resembling normal or respectable. She’d come to terms with the respectable part after they’d retaken Erebor. Really, she had. After Thorin had asked her forgiveness on his deathbed and they’d patched up their friendship she’d been beyond touched. And then she’d ‘touched’ (read punched in the thick head) him when Balin had told her he wouldn’t let the Elf healers near him.

            After having a remarkably one-sided row with the half conscious and newly restored King Under the Mountain Bilbo had sent for Lord Thranduil himself. The Elf King hadn’t taken too kindly to being summoned by anymore and liked being summoned to the Dwarf King’s side even less, but he was less of a fool than Bilbo had originally suspect while traversing his halls (she only had to kick him in the shin once before he succumbed to her glare (his son wasn’t going to comment on the smile his father restrained at the ministrations of the tiny creature)) and quickly set into healing the ailing royal. Once assured of Thorin’s care she’d made her way to Fíli and Kíli’s tent and thrown a truly fearsome ruckus that resulted in more Elf healers and the saving of Kíli’s bow arm.

            It was after she calmed down a bit and was reexamining her actions in the tent she was sharing with her newly reconciled family that she kissed the last vestiges of her desperately cloying respectability away. Respectable Hobbits did not yell at dying Kings, kick obstinate ones, and then throw bone saws at the retreating backs of terrified dwarow healers. They definitely didn’t run out their smial doors on deadly missions for a displaced people she knew nothing about and then shift into their hedgepig forms to scare fire breathing wyrms out of their gold hordes (who’d have thought Smaug was so terrified of small running spindle bushes? (Gandalf)). And they surely didn’t accidently accept an offer of courtship and get adopted into a family of dwarrow miners and toymakers. Snuggling with Bofur later that night after the youngest Elf Prince came to inform her their royal dwarrow were doing fine, she supposed being respectable wasn’t necessarily all it was cracked up to be anyway.

            But at least she could have a relatively normal existence. She wouldn’t be going back to the Shire, having gone through much too much to reclaim the mountain to ask Bofur to leave, and she wasn’t too keep on leaving behind her new family and friends anyway. But Hobbits were all very family-oriented so it was perfectly natural for her to remain with hers. Certainly it wasn’t the norm for a Hobbit to be hailed as both Elf and Dwarf friend, or be gifted a wedding of royal standards by the king’s sister (Lady Dís was very pleased that she’d forced her ridiculous family into seeing sense (read beat them into a healthier perspective)). But it was traditional for Hobbits to make their marriages a strong showing with friends and family and _lots_ of food and merriment. And Bofur and Bilbo’s union was viewed as a positive omen for the prosperity of the Mountain, having been born from the very quest that retook the mountain. And it wasn’t usual for Hobbits to wake one morning to find a wizard friend she hadn’t seen in five years since their adventure had arrived with a fauntling in tow who hadn’t yet went through his first shift. But she couldn’t begrudge her little cousin, poor little Frodo had lost so much so young and his big blue eyes had already half won the hearts of everyone in the mountain.

            Even Dwalin’s fierce appearance was no match for the little lad as within a week of being in the mountain she’d seen the dwarf sneaking Frodo cookies from Bombur’s frshest batch before dinner. Thorin was surprised by the size of the child as Frodo at the tender age of ten still smaller than most dwarrow children _ever_ were, but he could talk and run around after his nephews with all the natural energy of a fauntling. Fíli and Kíli had taken to him instantly proclaiming him cousin as Kíli commented how he “looks like a small Thorin!” Óin was seen smiling at the lad when he would berate the wailing dwarrow in the healing halls for being “wailing wussies”. Balin and Ori found a willing student in the lad and would sequester him for hours on end just to watch the brilliant interest in those big blue eyes as he was regaled with dwarrow history, and Nori found it entirely too amusing to teach her little one how to sneak around the halls. Dori and Bombur took turns getting the faunt to eat and Bifur had been instantly protective of the new cub in his family. The only incident they’d had was when Glóin and his Gimli (who was a remarkably large polar bear for such a young dwarrow) had both decided it would be fun to let the wee thing ride them around the caverns. Bilbo heart had almost failed seeing the tiny boy on the back of a rambling grizzly. Thankfully she wasn’t the only one with sense as both Lady Dís and Glóin’s own wife had helped reign the two elder dwarrow in line (violently).

            Normal was relative anyway and it would have been entirely unnatural to send the little thing to live with his other Baggins relations. Lobelia would have warped the poor dear. Besides, within moments of meeting the unnaturally solemn little boy Bofur had the child’s wide grin and musical laughter lighting the room. Frodo favored the toymaker of the entire Company, as he was showered in little toys and carted about on strong shoulders half the day. At night when Frodo inevitably had nightmares about loosing his mother and father (which eventually became nightmares about loosing Aunt Bilbo and Uncle Bofur (the old miner may have gone a little misty eyed the first time the lad had called him that as he ran up to him smiling after spending the day with the Durin lads)) Bofur would place his hat on the little faunt and shift so he could cuddle the red panda during the night as Bilbo wrapped them both in her own arms. Possibly the most natural sight Bilbo had ever witnessed was her boys curled in front of the fire in the big overstuffed armchair watching her with bright eyes as she read Frodo his nightly bedtime story.

            The only thing that had been putting a kink into her otherwise blissful existence was Frodo’s continued lack of shift. Sometimes it would take a hobbit child time to find their form, Bilbo herself had been considered a late shifter. But even she’d been a hedgepig for a whole year before her tenth birthday. Frodo was nearing his twelfth now and she wasn’t sure what to do. It could be assumed the trauma from loosing both his parents had set him back a bit but it was nearly three years since they’d passed and he’d been adjusting so well to mountain life for the past two. She couldn’t fathom what the problem was and Óin was adamant that there was nothing physically wrong with the lad. Even his nightmares had reduced to maybe one every few months instead of the nightly events they’d been when he’d first gotten there. Gandalf had begun visiting them more often since Frodo had taken residence, checking up on the lad as it were, and he would only smile benignly at the older hobbit’s concern and say, “Give it time Bilbo. He’ll reveal himself when he’s ready.”

            Bilbo had sighed and continued to prepare for her little nephew’s party. He’d wanted to go on a picnic with his family for his twelfth birthday so Bombur and Bilbo had sequestered themselves in the kitchens and were preparing a feast for their day trip. It had taken some wheedling by the boys, Dís and Bilbo but the look on Frodo’s pudgy little face when the King had said he couldn’t leave the Mountain unattended had ended any protest with a grumble and an affectionate hair ruffle. And thus, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain son of Thror, King of Erebor, found himself with a fauntling on his broad shoulders and a wicker basket in his shield hand walking with his Company once more. Though this time it was a little ways away from the Mountain of his childhood and towards a pretty little field with the last flowers of the season and a small stream down the hill right on the edge of some forest.

            “What has my life become?” Thorin grumbled as a sharp tug on his braids accompanied by a, “Whoa pony!” and then a yell in his ear and a lunge off his shoulders, both of which almost finished off his hearing and his heart simultaneously, “WE’RE HERE!”

            Familiar with the tyke’s fearless recklessness, Bofur was right there to catch the squealing hobbit as he tried his hand at flight from the King’s shoulders laughing, “Right chu are lad.” The toymaker swung the giggling mass above his head and ran into the first flower patch they came to.

            “Right then lads, set up! Bilbo you and Bombur are forbidden from lifting a finger, you’ve already done enough making all this food,” Dís announced sharply as she began to drag her yelping son’s into setting out the blankets and setting up a tented awning.

            It was only hours later that normal was tossed out with respectable, its hasty deparcher was heralded by a proclamation from Glóin that rang a certain déjà vu in Bilbo. “What in the name of Mahal is _that_?!”

            The day had been filled with happy laughter, good food, and grand company. Frodo had never looked happier or healthier as he was chased around by his cousins and tumbling around with the young Ri’s fox shifts. It was as they were reposing after stuffing themselves, Frodo wandering but in the company of the ever watchful Bifur, when the little fauntling tripped and began to roll down the small hill their picnic was on. Before anyone could stop it he’d rolled right into the river.

            It was only Bofur’s restraining arms that stopped Bilbo from jumping in after the lad and potentially drowning herself. Hobbits weren’t the best of swimmers and Bilbo could do little more than float in gentle waters, never mind a stream with a current. She still clawed at his arms, shrieking her nephew’s name into the panic rent air. Fíli and Kíli had thrown themselves into the water to help the beyond distressed Bifur as he dove under to find the submerged faunt. It took what felt like hours before it was concluded the little boy’s body had been swept away, and it took Dwalin and Glóin’s help to drag the half drowned Bifur back to shore. Bilbo found her face shoved into Bofur’s chest as tears ravaged her face and a keening came from her heartbroken chest. It was as Glóin was wrestling himself back onto the shore that he yelped and jumped backward, falling back into the water as he slipped on the wet shore.

            Escaping Bofur’s suddenly lax arms Bilbo ran to the river edge and collapsed onto the grass there with a relieved yelp as something slick and furry lumbered into her arms.

            “Lass… what _is_ that?” Bofur asked as the Company came to surround the suddenly joyous lass. In her arms Bilbo was cradling the oddest little thing he’d ever seen. It was tiny, easily fitting into his Hobbit’s two hands, it also had fur, he could clearly see that. But where it was furry and had the tail of a beaver it also had what looked like a bloody duck bill and webbed, clawed feet. It was strangely cute where it nestled into Bilbo’s chest, and it was the very familiar nuzzling that made him realize what he was looking at, “Frodo!?” Falling to his own knees Bofur found himself with arms full of wet wife and a tiny leathery bill pushing into his chest.

            “FRODO!?” Kíli and Fíli’s yell was joined by the incredulous Gimli as the lads ogled at the critter. The rest of the dwarrow making their own demands for answers, turning their queries. They slowly fell silent as Bilbo’s laughter cut through the malarkey. Sighing in relief and after her small fit their Burglar announced, “I think Frodo’s the very first platypus the Shire’s ever had.” Then she shook her head and started giggling again as she relaxed back into Bofur’s arms and carded her hands through the slick wet fur of her nephew, slowly explaining how he should come back to his hobbit form. When he did some time later with a laugh and excited blue eyes.

            When they got back to the mountain no one left Frodo alone for the next three months. And Bifur carried the lad around, glaring at anyone who tried to come near him or talk reason to him, for the first two weeks.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going under the notion that a ten-year-old hobbit is like a five-year-old human.


End file.
